Unexpected
by nighttimerunner
Summary: It might have been unexpected, but running into her favorite author that night was far from unpleasant.


**A/N:** A season 3-ish AU Caskett meeting.

 **Disclaimer:** Don't own them.

* * *

"I have no life," she groans and swirls the straw around in her glass in case the answer is floating in the depths of the orange drink. "Every night after work I go alone to my quiet apartment. I'm tired of quiet. I want… _loud._ How do I get that?"

"A little lipstick wouldn't hurt." Lanie's remark isn't helpful _at all_ and Kate turns her attention away from the fruit bomb to glare at her best friend.

"I'm just saying," Lanie mumbles around her own straw, before taking a long sip. When Kate's look doesn't waver, she sets her glass down with a sigh. "Look, there are plenty of guys here who have been checking you out since we arrived. Like Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome over there. I heard him talking to his friends earlier and I'm pretty sure he's a doctor."

"No thanks," she scoffs, without even looking. "Doctors are-"

"Your next words better be smart and gorgeous or I'll-" Lanie's creative threat is interrupted by the chirp of her phone. Kate takes a sip of her drink as she watches her friend read the message, already anticipating what's to come. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lanie lets out a dirty giggle before typing a reply.

Kate waits, trying not to smile, while Lanie schools her face into an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry." In her hand the phone chirps again.

"You have to go?"

"Yeah. Um… That was my boss and…"

"I get it," Kate waves off the explanation. "Too bad you're losing your night off, though." Keeping her face neutral becomes more difficult when Lanie's eyes flick down to the phone, then widen at the message on the screen.

"Mmhm… Too bad." Placing a few twenties on the bar, Lanie slides down from her seat. "I really am sorry."

"Lanie, it's fine," Kate assures, reaching over to help when the M.E. has trouble inserting her arm into the sleeve of her coat. "I'll just finish this drink and I'll head home. Besides, it's not like you could say no when work calls."

"Yeah, work. They, uh… had some problems with the, you know…"

"Body?" she suggests, still struggling to keep the smirk at bay.

"Yes. Exactly. So, I gotta go. To the, uh, morgue. Where I work," Lanie says, pointing over her shoulder in the general direction of the door. "See you on Monday?"

"Sure. Oh, and Lanie," she adds, letting the teasing grin loose. "Tell Espo I said hi."

Lanie narrows her eyes at her laughing friend. "Shut up," she grumbles finally and turns, a little shaky on her heels.

As she watches her best friend walk out, Kate's smile turns more wistful. Though she'd never admit it out loud, she is a little jealous. She misses that rush at the beginning of a relationship, that giddiness one text message can evoke. With Lanie and Espo, there's the added excitement of hiding their relationship from everyone — although, the entire precinct knows about them.

Glancing around, she seeks out the doctor Lanie pointed out earlier. He is good looking. Nice smile, kind eyes. He looks... safe.

This time the amused lift of her lips is aimed at herself, at the flicker of young Kate in her thoughts, as she downs the rest of her drink. She doesn't want safe. What she wants — _needs_ — is-

"Do you know you have a gorgeous smile?" a smooth voice interrupts her thoughts, and even without looking she knows who it belongs to.

"Hmm?" His own smile, when she turns to face him, is not at all unattractive. She's seen it before, of course — in papers, at book signings, at the corner table of the bar where he has spent the past hour sipping his whiskey and staring at her. Still, it sets off a pleasant flutter in her stomach.

"Can I buy you another?" he asks, nodding at her empty glass.

"No thanks," she shakes her head and manages to hold off a cringe. "Any more and I'm afraid I'll turn into a pineapple." When Lanie had insisted that wine and beer weren't special enough to celebrate their rare girls' night out, she hadn't bothered to argue.

Three exotic drinks later, she wishes she had.

"Fair enough," he chuckles. "In that case, would you like to dance?"

The moment he extends his hand, the band strikes the first notes of a famous rock ballad. She glances past him at the confused dancers who seconds ago were in the middle of gyrating to an upbeat pop song, and narrows her eyes at him.

The timing is a little too convenient and his look of innocence is a little too exaggerated to be believable, but she has to admit it's quite flattering. So, she places her hand in his and follows him to the dance floor to join the other couples.

"I'm Rick", he says once they have found their rhythm. The introduction is unnecessary — she does own all of his books — but she won't tell him that.

"Kate," she says instead and doesn't resist when he pulls her closer. His hand on her lower back is flirting with the line of inappropriate, but since he's not exactly groping her she lets it be. Probably because she entered the town of Tipsyville half an hour ago, and his touch feels kind of nice.

"So, Kate…" He tests out her name, savoring it with a smile. "What do you do for a living?" His hand inches lower on her back, his fingers sweeping briefly over the swell of her butt, and she resists the urge to smirk when she answers.

"I'm a cop." His hand stills, but doesn't move up — unlike his eyebrows. She raises one of hers in challenge as she adds, "homicide detective".

Based on his reputation, she's not surprised he doesn't pull away — or run out like some other guys have in the past. But she wasn't prepared for the smoldering look he gives her, nor for the immediate fire it ignites within her.

"That's so hot."

His voice is deeper, rougher, than before and she wets her lips as the air around them grows thick with tension. Everything else — the bar, the people, even the music — fades away as they sway barely enough for it to be called dancing

And then his hand slides lower.

There's no hesitance in the movement, but he's still letting her make the choice. She could easily walk away. She could go home and catch up on sleep while he finds some bimbo celebutante to take to his bed. It would be the safe thing to do.

"You want to get out of here?"

* * *

She wakes up to curious fingers tracing the side of her neck, tripping over the vertebra and circling the dimples on her lower back, all the while nudging the sheet away from their path. Goosebumps rise at the wake of his gentle touch and she can't help the shiver that runs through her. No more than she can help the easy smile that spreads when she opens her eyes to take in his tousled hair and bright eyes.

"Morning." His voice is rough with sleep and she hums in reply, as she wiggles her hips against the part of him that's definitely awake.

His playful growl is the only warning she gets before he shifts to straddle her thighs. Despite the surprise, her body's reaction is immediate. It tightens in anticipation of what's to come, bringing back memories of the night before. The kisses on the dance floor had developed into a heated makeout session in the backseat of the cab and she has no idea how they made it up to her apartment. By the time they reached her bed, she was already naked.

It was hot and frenzied, it was sweet and exploratory. But, most of all, it was so, _so_ very good.

A brush of lips on her shoulder blade pulls her back to the present. "You know, I noticed you the minute you stepped into the bar," he murmurs against her skin, his kisses following the path his fingers drew moments ago. "I was captivated."

"You were staring," she accuses with a voice that is all too breathy and not nearly stern enough to be effective. "It was creepy," she adds and can feel his smile on her lower back.

"When I saw your friend leave, I was afraid I wouldn't have time to talk to the band before you disappeared," he confesses to the curve of her hip.

"Ha! I- hmm... knew it." It's so difficult to concentrate on speaking when he's mapping the back of her thighs with his lips.

"I didn't choose the song, though," he tells her, as he nudges his nose against the inside of her thigh. When she yields to his request, he rewards her by showering her skin with small nips of his teeth. Her moan almost drowns out his next words. "That was all fate. It's our song now."

The break, while he nudges her legs further apart and makes himself comfortable between them, is long enough to regain her bearings.

"No, no, no," she protests as soon as his words register. "Our song can't be Bon Jo- _Oh. Yes._ "

* * *

"This doesn't have to be the end, you know," he says, standing in the open doorway of her apartment. With his hair damp from their shower and his rumpled clothes from last night, he's ready for his walk of shame. "We could have breakfast, get to know each other." Except he keeps trying to find ways to stay.

"Look, as much fun as last night was-"

"And it was _fun_."

"I think we both know it was just a one-time thing," she continues, ignoring his interruption and his dancing eyebrows.

"A three-time thing, you mean?"

"A one night thing, then," she corrects with a roll of her eyes, then holds up a hand when he opens his mouth, "and a morning. The point is, it won't happen again."

He sneaks an arm around her and draws her into him, his other hand toying with the sash of her robe. Despite her earlier words, her sigh is void of any irritation when his mouth seeks out the curve of her neck. "But it would be so very, _very_ enjoyable if it did."

His argument is solid and feels so good she almost gives in. Almost.

"Even so." With a hand pressed against his chest she creates some space between them, needing to clear her thoughts. "I have no interest in seeing my life spread on Page Six."

She realizes her mistake when his eyes widen, his lips spreading in glee.

"Oh! Now I _have_ to stay," he says while she begins backing him through the doorway. "I want to get to know my number one fa—"

"Bye." She cuts him off, giving him the final push into the hallway and closing the door before he gets a chance to say anything else. And before she gets a chance to embarrass herself any further.

* * *

 _Shit._

Six weeks later, standing in her bathroom, she glares at the plastic stick on the counter. The pink plus sign looks back, unwavering, as if it hasn't just upended her life.

She'd blamed her irregular hours and massive workload for the headaches and her oncoming periods for the sore breasts. But when the box of tampons still remained untouched ten days later, she'd decided to begin her day with a trip to the nearest drug store. She'd told herself it was just a precaution. She'd do the test, it would be negative and she could go to the precinct and focus on work.

After twenty minutes of staring at the pink sign, she's convinced she won't be able to think about anything else for the next nine months.

As if on cue, her phone rings in the bedroom, reminding her of the fact the world outside hasn't come to a jarring halt.

With a sigh she forces herself to turn around and walk out of the room, leaving behind the pregnancy test and the shower where she is absolutely, most definitely, never ever having sex again. Especially with bestselling authors.

By the time she reaches the crime scene, her focus is solely on the case. All other thoughts are shoved into their own compartments, as she examines the scene, crouches to study the body covered with rose petals and listens to Lanie's preliminary report. It isn't until later, when she's back at the precinct and the murder board from two weeks ago catches her eye, that one of those thoughts escapes its prison and floats to the front of her mind. Frozen to the spot she stares at the image of Martin Fisk lying face down in a pentagram, as the details click into place.

A quick glance back confirms that Montgomery is in his office, but she returns to scanning the board once more, stalling. She might have found the lead that will crack two cases, but she keeps hoping the ground will open up and swallow her. She knows what her Captain will say when she informs him of the bibliophile copycat killer they seem to be dealing with. She _knows_ his first order will be to interview the author.

The thought isn't entirely unpleasant.

 _Shit._

 **End.**

* * *

 **A/N:** This fic was inspired by the song "Illegitimate Children" by Brandy Clark. Google Drive tells me I started writing this in December 2014. Look how fast I am. -_-

Dia, you are the bestest of the bestest! I really appreciate how you pushed aside your pure hatred for country music and helped me with this story. ;p


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